Charles Carleton Coffin
Copyright© 2025 by William Elliot Griffis
Chapter 29: The Golden Wedding
Thus, amid happy surroundings, in the new home, in the last leap-year of this wonderful century, came the time of the golden wedding. God had walked with these, his children, fifty years, while they had walked with one another. Providence seemed to whisper, “Come, for all things are now ready.” The new home was finished and furnished, all bright and cheerful, and suffused with the atmosphere of genial companionship. The bride of a half century before, now with the roses of health blooming under the trellis of her silvery hair, with sparkling eyes beaming fun and sympathy, welcome and gladness, by turns, was at this season in happy health. This was largely owing, as she gladly acknowledged, to regular calisthenics, plenty of fresh air, and complete occupation of mind and body. The thousand invitations in gilt and white had, as with “the wings of a dove covered with silver and her feathers with yellow gold,” flown over the city, commonwealth, and nation. On February 18th, the house having been transformed by young friends into a maze of greenery and flowers, husband and wife stood together to receive congratulations. In the hall were ropes of sturdy pine boughs and glistening laurel, with a huge wreath of evergreen suspended from the ceiling, and bearing the anniversary date, 1846 and 1896. In the reception-room one friend had hung the emblem of two hearts joined by a band of gold above the cornice. Dining-room and library were festooned with smilax. In the archways and windows were hanging baskets of jonquils and ferns. “An help meet for him,” the bride of fifty years was arrayed in heliotrope satin with trimmings of point lace, making, as we thought, with her delicate complexion and soft white hair, a sight as lovely as when, amid the snow-storms of New Hampshire, a half century before, Charles Carleton Coffin first called Sallie Farmer his wife.
Of Washington it has been said, “God made him childless that a nation might call him father.” In the home on that day were scores of nieces and nephews, and children of several generations, from the babe in arms, and the child with pinafore, to the stately dames and long-bearded men, who, one and all, called the bride and groom “uncle and aunt.” From a ladies’ orchestra, on the top floor, music filled the house, the melody falling like a lark’s song in upper air. In the dining-room, turned for the nonce into a booth of evergreens, where everything was sparkle and joy, new and old friends met to discuss, over dainty cups and plates, both the happy moment and the delights of long ago.
It was not only a very bright, but a noteworthy company that gathered on that February afternoon and evening. Massachusetts was about to lose by death her Governor, F. T. Greenhalge, as she had lost three ex-Governors, all friends of Carleton, within the previous twelvemonth, but there was present the handsome acting-Governor of the Commonwealth, Roger Wolcott. Men eminent in political life, authors, editors, preachers, business men, troops of lifelong friends, men and women of eminence, honor, and usefulness, fellow Christians and workers in wonderfully varied lines of activity, were present to share in and add to the joy. Among the gifts, which seemed to come like Jupiter’s shower of gold upon Danaë, were two that touched Carleton very deeply. The Massachusetts Club, which has numbered in its body many Senators, Governors, generals, diplomatists, lawyers, authors, and merchants, whose names shine very high on the roll of national fame, sent their fellow member an appropriate present. Instead of the regular cup, vase, or urn, or anything that might suggest stress, strain, or even victory, or even minister to personal vanity, the Club, through its secretary, Mr. S. S. Blanchard, presented the master of Alwington with a superb steel engraving, richly framed. It represented the Master, sitting under the vine-roof trellis at the home of Lazarus, in Bethlehem. “You knew just what I wanted,” whispered the happy receiver.
During the evening, when the people of Shawmut Church were present, a hundred or more strong, their former and latter chief servant being with them, a silver casket, with twenty half eagles in it, was presented by Dr. W. E. Barton, with choice and fitting words. So deeply affected was this man Carleton, so noted for his self-mastery, that, for a moment, those who knew him best were shot through as by a shaft of foreboding, lest, then and there, the horses and chariot of fire might come for the prophet. A quarter of a minute’s pause, understood by most present as nothing more than a natural interval between presentation speech and reply, and then Carleton, as fully as his emotion would admit, uttered fitting words of response.
The “banquet hall deserted,” the photographic camera was brought into requisition, and pleasant souvenirs of a grand occasion were made. Everything joyously planned had been happily carried out. This was the culminating event in the life of a good man, to the making of whom, race, ancestry, parentage, wife, home, friends, country, and opportunity had contributed, and to all of which and whom, under God, Carleton often made grateful acknowledgments.
It was but a fortnight after this event, in which I participated with such unalloyed pleasure, that the telegraphic yellow paper, with its type-script message, announced that the earthly house of the tabernacle of Carleton’s spirit had been dissolved, and that his building of God, the “house not made with hands,” had been entered.
The story of Carleton’s last thirteen days on earth is soon told. He had written a little upon his new story. For the Boston Journal he had penned an article calling attention to the multiplying “sky-scraper” houses, and the need of better fire-apparatus. He had, with the physician’s sanction, agreed to address on Monday evening, March 2d, the T. Starr King Unitarian Club of South Boston, on “Some Recollections of a War Correspondent.”
Carleton’s last Sunday on earth was as one of “the days of heaven upon earth.” It was rich to overflowing with joyous experiences. It is now ours to see that the shadows of his sunset of life were pointing to the eternal morning.
It was the opening day of spring. At Shawmut Church, in holy communion, he, with others, celebrated the love of his Saviour and Friend. To Carleton, it was a true Eucharist. A new vision of the cross and its meaning seemed to dawn upon his soul. At the supper-table, conversation turned upon Christ’s obedience unto death, his great reconciliation of man to God, his power to move men, the crucifixion, and its meaning. Carleton said, after expressing his deep satisfaction with Doctor Barton’s morning sermon, and his interpretation of the atonement, that he regarded Christ’s life as the highest exhibition of service. By his willing death on the cross, Jesus showed himself the greatest and best of all servants of man, while thus joyfully doing his Father’s will. On that day of rest, Carleton seemed to dwell in an almost transfigurating atmosphere of delight in his Master.
On Sunday night husband and wife enjoyed a quiet hour, hand in hand, before the wood fire. The sunlight and warmth of years gone by, coined into stick and fagots from the forest, were released again in glow and warmth, making playful lights and warning shadows. The golden minutes passed by. The prattle of lovers and the sober wisdom of experience blended. Then, night’s oblivion. Again, the cheerful morning meal and the merry company, the incense of worship, and the separation of each and all to the day’s toil.
Carleton sat down in his study room to write. He soon called his wife, complaining of a distressing pain in his stomach. He was advised to go to bed, and did so. The physician, Dr. A. L. Kennedy, was sent for. “How is your head?” asked Doctor Kennedy.
“If it were not for this pain, I should get up and write,” answered Carleton.
With the consent of the physician he rose from the couch and walked the room for awhile for relief. Then returning, as he was about to lie down again, he fell over. Quickly unconscious, he passed away. Science would call the immediate cause of death apoplexy.
Thus died at his post, as he would have wished, the great war correspondent, traveller, author, statesman, and friend of man and God. He had lived nearly three years beyond the allotted period of three score and ten.
Two days later, while the flag over the public schoolhouse in Brookline drooped at half-mast, and Carleton’s picture was wreathed with laurels, at the request of the scholars themselves, in the impressive auditorium of Shawmut Church, Carleton’s body lay amid palms and lilies in the space fronting the pulpit. At his head and at his feet stood a veteran-sentinel from the John A. Andrew Post of the Grand Army of the Republic. These were relieved every quarter of an hour, during the exercises, by comrades who had been detailed for a service which they were proud to render to one who had so well told their story and honored them so highly. It was entirely a voluntary offering on the part of the veterans to pay this tribute of regard, which was as touching as it was unostentatious.